I think home for June Jordan was sometimes like the living room/ but home for me is when I split a cigarette with a friend/ laughing at how slim it is and waiting for the fume to sizzle my nostrils/ home is when I pick cyclamen and where cyclamen grows/ home is when the sun tans my forehead in december/ or maybe it’s some foreign kid who liked to say hi to me as I was walking home/ and maybe he knows I’m foreign too and that’s home to him/ maybe home is a discount/ or a free bag or a piece of chocolate that I got from the spice guy as a kid or that I got from a barista/ eyes puffed up before my morning shift/ yes “there is less and less living room”/ and the living rooms are empty and I don’t sit there anymore/ and the emptiness feels like cotton-mouth/  and I don’t know how to move towards home because home is the cyclamens but it is also a glimmer/ and the glimmer is always dancing/ and cotton-mouth is not a feeling it’s a snake/ and I don’t like snakes/ and there are no snakes in my country except something that looks like a wall/             maybe the living room is just wooden cabinets/ and the cabinets smell like tannins/ and I tasted tannins once because I cracked an oak and leached it/ and home is where oak grows/ and I want to taste the oak